


Garrideb

by Flangst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Post S3, Shooting, editing later just want to get this all up, i can't believe i never posted this, mycroft does a Nice Thing, they are so dumb, this was written before the Abominable Bride so it's totally non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flangst/pseuds/Flangst
Summary: John's marriage is rapidly falling apart in spite of his impending fatherhood. He makes a discovery that cements his future once and for all.





	1. Paper Trails

_I want a divorce._

The thought had crossed John’s mind dozens of times since that fateful night. Even after Christmas, even after vowing to try to put this all behind him and continue loving the women ostensibly known as Mary Watson, even after having decided to stand by his vows and stay with his wife because he’d said for better or worse, he was still thinking this.

The problem was, this wasn’t just some fleeting thought conjured up in moments when they fought (more than he cared to admit) or when he was just plain irritated at her (far more than was probably healthy). It was a constant, niggling voice in the back of his mind, often accompanied by a list of reasons why divorcing her was a perfectly logical decision. Then he’d remind himself of what he had promised and the child they were having together, and the protests would die down again.

It didn’t erase the fact that he was completely miserable.

After Moriarty’s broadcast has appeared on every channel in the country and Sherlock’s plane had been turned around, John had been ecstatic and nearly weak-kneed with relief. Sherlock hadn’t said, but there was something about his demeanor that had dropped a cold lump of dread into his stomach. Watching the plane leave had been one of the worst moments of his life, and when Sherlock had stepped off again, he’d run across the tarmac and practically knocked Sherlock to the ground with the strength of his embrace. He should have hugged Sherlock before he’d left, but there had been so much unsaid swirling between them…

And then Mycroft had bundled him off to 221B, and since then Sherlock had only texted John a few times, each time a brief message of one or two sentences.

_Please be patient with me._

_I promise I’ll explain everything soon._

_I’m sorry, John, I can’t see you right now. I’ll tell you everything when I can._

John sighed and put his phone back in his pocket. He was trying not to text Sherlock obsessively. He knew the Holmes brothers were working feverishly on trying to figure out where the signal had come from—and if it was indeed Moriarty staging a comeback. Sherlock had assured John that he’d seen the man stick a loaded pistol in his mouth and blow the back of his head out and while it was theoretically possible to survive such a traumatic head wound, the odds were infinitesimally small. Mycroft was keeping Sherlock’s sudden return to London on the DL because of the detective’s minor celebrity status—murdering Magnussen had thrown the media into a tizzy.

That was another thing. Why had Sherlock killed him? After Magnussen had revealed that he had no physical Appledore vaults, Sherlock had seemed to shut down, barely aware of John or anything else until the security forces had arrived. Logically, John knew that by shooting Magnussen in front of witnesses Sherlock had ensured that John wouldn’t be implicated in the murder. But that still didn’t explain why he’d decided to kill him at all. Yes, the man had been despicable, and yes, he’d threatened to destroy John’s life with the information he had on Mary, but it just seemed so unlike Sherlock to just… up and coldly murder someone. And yeah, John knew, that had absolutely been first-degree murder—Magnussen had been ruthlessly humiliating John moments before, but he was still unarmed and not actively threatening their lives.

Sherlock had given no explanation beyond “to keep you both and the baby safe” when John had asked, after Mycroft had permitted him to visit Sherlock in the M16 holding cell while they decided what to do with him. John had accepted it at the time, but it had felt hollow, lacking. Killing Magnussen DID protect Mary, and by extension John and the unborn baby (and the countless other people Magnussen had blackmailed), but something just felt… off.

Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock had no reason to want to protect Mary. For God’s sake, the woman had shot him, and he’d flat-lined on the operating table! (John still felt his gut twist unpleasantly at the memory of that flat, toneless beep) And beyond that, she’d threatened him right after, and had never once apologized for putting him through such horrific pain. No matter how many times Sherlock had tried to explain her reasoning, it all sounded terribly wrong to John. It didn’t matter that Sherlock had accidentally stumbled over her secret; it still didn’t justify shooting him rather than asking him to keep quiet, or to help her, or ANYTHING else. And to top it all off, she would have been perfectly content to go on lying to John, possibly forever, had Sherlock not made his miraculous comeback. The thought made him ill. How could he have misjudged a person so badly?

Yeah, on some level he still did love her—or at least the woman she pretended to be—but he didn’t know her. He didn’t know who her family had been, where she was from, whether or not she even was an orphan, who her childhood friends had been… he didn’t even know her name. The Mary Morstan he’d fallen in love with was a fabrication, the false identity of an assassin with the initials A.G.R.A. He had no idea how many stories of her past were true and how many were just more facets of the mask she’d carefully constructed for the past five years. He knew that she loved him, in her own way, and the morning he’d reconciled with her she’d said she was willing to put her past behind her and try to move forward in their marriage. John had wanted to forgive her, had wanted to look into her eyes and forget the nightmare that had sent his world crashing down around his shoulders… but he couldn’t. He’d never forgive her for what she’d done to Sherlock. Nor could he forgive such a cold betrayal of his own trust. John had a history of dealing extremely poorly with betrayal; Mary had committed a deception of enormous magnitude. No, he hadn’t taken her back because he forgave her. He’d taken her back because he’d promised to be there for her for better or worse and they were having a baby, and he was a good man (wasn’t he?).

It was a huge mess. He would keep his word; he’d stay with her, and then… what? Spend the rest of his life in an unhappy and mistrustful marriage with a woman who he didn’t know the first thing about? Try to put on a happy façade for their poor kid? Children were perceptive; they noticed when their parents were tense or angry. And on top of that he felt more estranged from Sherlock than ever before.

Well, it wasn’t as if he wasn’t trying to keep in touch, he thought bitterly. Sherlock wasn’t exactly being very chatty at the moment.

 _But_ , the small voice that often advocated for divorce piped up, _he’s also been under house arrest and Mycroft is probably watching him closely. If Moriarty really is back, it’s a matter of national—hell, international—security and Sherlock will need to be at the top of his game._

 _Yeah, but he knows I want to help him!_ he argued with himself. _It wouldn’t kill him to at least let me know what’s going on!_

_He probably will as soon as he can._

_Well it wouldn’t be the first time if he didn’t_ , he thought, the old ache welling up again. Two years… two years and not once had Sherlock ever contacted him, not once had he told John the truth. But, Sherlock had apologized, and John knew deep down that he meant it, and John had forgiven him. He’d let him back into his life because how could he not? And Sherlock had done so much for him: saving him from the bonfire, planning his wedding, the waltz, the beautiful best man speech, allowing John to decide for himself to go back to Mary without arguing against his decision though he reasonably would have had every right to, and willingly accepting his punishment for killing Magnussen to protect John… Sherlock had put everything on the line for John.

If he was trying to prove to John that he wanted to be a good friend, or was trying to make up for faking his death, he needn’t have bothered. John already knew. He was the closest, truest and most precious friend John would ever have, and the person John trusted more than anyone in the world. John loved him in every way, deeply and desperately and even if he knew he could never possibly have what he really wanted with Sherlock, his relationship to the detective was the only bright spot in John’s life right now. God, he missed him so much, missed what they’d had together. Even with all the experiments and the body parts cluttering up the fridge and the strops and fights and violin concertos at three in the morning his life at 221B had been so much happier, so much brighter, so much more meaningful than what he had now. Even with the impending baby on the horizon, he realized with a guilty start. Of course he’d do his best to love and protect the child; it certainly wasn’t her fault her mom was a lying assassin, but now that it was going to be a reality he couldn’t see himself as a father. He was a short-tempered adrenaline junkie with trust issues trapped in a rocky marriage, and on top of that he was completely head-over-heels in love with his best friend. He wouldn’t exactly be qualifying for Britain’s #1 Father anytime soon.

“John?”

Speak of the devil.

Mary poked her head in the bedroom doorway, one hand resting on the heavy swell of her belly. Now only a month or so from birth, she’d taken maternity leave off work and spent all her time puttering around at home, preparing it for the baby. Or so he assumed. He didn’t know what she got up to while he was at work—who was to say she wasn’t involved in some kind of assassin business? She frowned at him and he realized that everything he’d been ruminating over was written all over his face. He didn’t like the flash of cold suspicion that crossed her gaze.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just sitting, thinking. Is that a crime now or something?” He’d meant for it to come off as jocular; it just sounded annoyed and defensive.

Her frown deepened; he winced, knowing he’d come off as too harsh. “John, please don’t start. I was just asking.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Just, you know, bit stressed. This whole thing with Moriarty.”

She glanced down at his phone, her expression switching briefly to calculating before returning to concerned wife. “I’m sure Sherlock is trying to figure it out.” She sat beside him, leaning into his arm. He sighed and wrapped the limb around her shoulders, ignoring how stiff and unnatural the gesture felt. “Yeah, I know he is, I wish he’d just keep me in the loop.”

She shrugged. “Well, you know. He does that. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.” There was that little undercurrent of resentment and irritation again, the tone he’d been hearing since the wedding. He gritted his teeth as she continued, “Besides, I mean, you do have a few other things to worry about now,” and deliberately ran a hand over her swollen stomach.

“Yeah, I know, the baby… yeah, I know,” he sighed, feeling the bars of the prison come down again.

Mary frowned. “You know, you could act like you at least want her, John!”

“Of course I want the baby! I’ve stayed, haven’t I? What makes you think I don’t want her?” he snapped back, caught off guard by her sudden vehemence.

“Oh, John, don’t try lying to me, you know you’re terrible at it,” she replied, standing up and walking towards the door again. “I did what I had to do, and it’s over with, and you need to move on and focus on the future. On us.”

Oh. _Oh_. That’s what this was about. “I am focusing on the future, Mary,” he began slowly, trying his very best to keep a rein on his rapidly fraying temper. “I told you… I meant what I told you, and part of what that means is I’m going to keep my family safe. If that means helping Sherlock stop Moriarty, then so be it.”

“And when you’re off on your little adventures with him, don’t forget where your priorities lie,” she replied coolly, not even bothering to deliver her hostility in the usual package of passive-aggression.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, John,” she said and he could have sworn he saw a flash of hurt over her face. “I’m going out, Carly and Paula want to go shopping for baby clothes. I’ll be back tonight,” she announced suddenly, walking away. He could hear her digging in the closet for her coat. Carly and Paula. Bridesmaids. Right.

“Fine,” he said flatly, but by then she was gone, the slam of the front door echoing in her wake. He sat back down on the mattress, angry, guilty and numb. Priorities… he knew where he wanted his priorities to lie. Hell, anyone who spoke to him for more than two minutes knew where his priorities lay, and they weren’t with his wife, no matter how much he wanted them to be. Liarliarliarliar…

His phone trilled and he nearly jumped in surprise, grabbing it and opening a new text from Sherlock. His heart began pounding with adrenaline.

_John, I am truly sorry for the delays. Are you free to come by this evening? I promise I’ll explain everything that’s been happening. SH_

Grinning in spite of himself, he typed a response.

_Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Say 30 minutes? JW_

Without waiting for a response he jumped up and hurried into the living room for his coat. Peering outside, he was greeted with the sight of a steady downpour that had already thoroughly soaked everything in sight. Pawing through the hall closet, he frowned when he couldn’t find his raincoat. Oh, right, their bedroom closet. Sure enough, the green garment was dangling in the back. He reached over to grab it and his knee collided with something solid and heavy, which tumbled to the floor a moment later.

“Oh, shit…” Retrieving his coat and pulling it on, he knelt down to inspect what had fallen. It was a stack of boxes towards the back corner of the closet that he vaguely recognized as belonging to Mary. The top one had lost its lid, spilling stacks of photos onto the floor. Grumbling, he began tossing them back in, noting without surprise that none were dated before 2009. As he was about to stack the boxes back up, he noticed the one on the bottom. It was smaller than the others and seemed older, more worn. Then he saw the initials on the lid.

A.G.R.A.

John felt his breathing quicken, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. Right. He was living with an assassin. A woman who had killed for money, as a career, who had the blood of God knew how many people on her hands. He reached for the box, feeling slightly guilty, and then remembering what she’d already done to him—to Sherlock—and pushing those feelings aside.

There it was, more proof than he’d ever need that he had no idea whom he’d married. Photo after incriminating photo, Mary with blond hair, as a brunette, even a redhead, with and without glasses, always with the same cold, ruthless look on her face. CIA profiles, contracts, letters; all sorts of information he could barely wrap his head around. Passports and ID’s from a number of countries: Britain, America, France, Denmark, Germany, Russia. A number of different alias jumped out at him—Harriet Jones, Sally Beaumont, Birdy Edwards—however, one name seemed more prominent than the rest: Rachel Adamson. All information of her with that name seemed to be dated from the late to mid-90’s—it looked like she was doing some farmed-out work for the CIA at that time. He noticed another peculiar name: Garrideb. Over and over, it appeared in the documents: Team Garrideb, a group of elite, top-paid American assassins who did dirty work for the CIA that couldn’t technically be authorized by the government. They were all given Greek alphabet code names; Mary’s was “Alpha Garrideb.” Ah. Suddenly A.G.R.A. made sense; it wasn’t two middle names, it was her name under the CIA. He scanned the profile pages, reading the information about the other agents. He was surprised to recognize another: Sebastian Moran (Beta Garrideb), who’d been a colonel in the American Special Operations Task Force working alongside John’s division. He’d been dishonorably discharged after several suspect murders had come to light. He had no scar in this photo yet; the man John remembered had a large, distinctive scar marring one cheek on his otherwise handsome, if hard, face.

John didn’t realize how long he’d been sitting there until his phone beeped again. Sherlock had texted, asking him if he was still planning on coming. He hastily composed a text.

_Yes. Sorry. Found something you need to know about. JW_

He carefully laid the paperwork back in the box and replaced it with the others, hoping that Mary wouldn’t suspect anything about it being slightly out of place. God, how stupid and gullible did she think he was, that she was willing to hide all this information right in their own house, practically under his nose? Well. He had been stupid and gullible, hadn’t he, considering he’d married her without a clue as to what she really was?

_But she fooled everyone, not just you._

Suddenly very sick of the flat, he hurried outside into the downpour, hailing a cab. There was only one place he wanted to be right now.


	2. A Thousand Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting them as is and editing later.

John felt his chest tighten when the cab pulled onto Baker Street. Giving the cabbie a handful of notes, he actually found himself straightening his jacket and running his fingers through his hair before he caught himself. What are you doing? Giving himself a good shake, he unlocked his door and stepped inside, closing his eyes as the usual rush of memories swarmed him.

Home.

The door to 221A clicked open and Mrs. Hudson poked her head out. She gave him a surprised smile. “John! What a lovely surprise.”

“Hi, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, grinning and giving her a hug.

“It’s lovely to have you back at home. Sherlock’s just upstairs, he’s been waiting for you, dear.”

Has he? John took at deep breath and tromped up the stairs. He had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue and no idea where to start. Not to mention the anger—oh, there was so much anger. It boiled in his stomach and climbed up his throat and made him tongue-tied with rage. He didn’t even know who it was aimed towards anymore. Maybe everyone at this point.

And there was Sherlock, standing in front of the couch, the wall in front of him completely plastered in photos, newspaper clippings, and other paraphernalia. John allowed himself a long, uninterrupted look at the back of the world’s only consulting detective. He gazed maybe a little too long at Sherlock’s arse before the man turned around, his face lighting up at the sight of John.

“Sorry I’m late,” was the first thing that popped out of his mouth. Sherlock waved it off.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to John’s armchair—still there since he’d moved it back that summer. That Sherlock had correctly guessed that John would move back irritated him too, for reasons he wasn’t ready to deal with at the moment.

“Have you eaten at all?” he asked, knowing that once Sherlock got hooked on a case he tended to neglect his transport until he passed out cold or his blood sugar dropped so low he couldn’t focus. Sherlock didn’t look like he’d hit the red zone yet, so maybe Mrs. Hudson was encouraging him to eat.

“Toast would be nice,” replied Sherlock, cocking an eyebrow. John felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and went into the kitchen to prepare a few slices. After he’d moved back in with Sherlock last year, he’d moved everything back from how Janine had put it. Sherlock had never said a word on the matter and John had never brought it up, even though the thought of her still made him blaze with jealousy.

Well, Sherlock did say he’d explain everything. Maybe now was the time to ask.

“So, um…” There hadn’t been this much awkward tension between them since the tarmac—no, don’t think about that, he admonished himself, gut twisting when he remembered the way Sherlock… the way he…

“Yes?”

“So I guess… you haven’t seen much of Janine?” What a stupid question. John wanted desperately to take it back, to edit it and deliver an opening line that didn’t sound nearly so needy and jealous.

Sherlock let out a humorless little chuckle, folding himself onto his chair. “No, not since she ‘broke up’ with me at the hospital. Ran into her once since then. All in all, I think she took it very well.”

“Yeah, sure.” John snorted, placing a plate of toast on the table and settling himself in his own armchair. “She definitely took it better than most women I’ve met.” He glanced at Sherlock, wondering if the man could hear the unspoken question in what he said. Sherlock sighed.

“John, I can hear you thinking and it’s quite loud so why don’t you just ask me?”

“Fine. Did you sleep with her?” God, he sounded like a colossal twat.

Sherlock actually looked shocked. For a moment he just blinked at John like he’d done a nude jig on the coffee table. Finally, he replied, “No. Of course not.”

“Ah, well, I thought… I mean, I did think so, but I wasn’t completely sure—“

“You didn’t honestly believe the tabloids, did you?”

“Well, no, it wasn’t that…” John felt himself blush, not wanting to explain any further—it had looked like damning evidence at the time—and he had been so shocked, and then so furious and jealous and disbelieving that he’d not once cottoned on to the thought that maybe Sherlock and Janine’s act didn’t extend as far as he thought. “I suppose she and Mary weren’t actually friends either. Come to think of it, Mary never invites any of her friends to the house. I have no idea what she does when she goes out, but I’m not guessing it’s dinner and drinks.”

“Janine’s quite a bit smarter than I realized,” admitted Sherlock, who looked maybe a touch guilty. “She wanted to use her association with me to make money, something I didn’t realize until after the fact. And she lied about Magnussen being out that night. I’m still not sure why. If she knew what Mary was planning, that doesn’t explain why Mary still attacked her.”

John snorted. “Maybe that’s just how she is. Being so-called ‘friends’ with you didn’t stop her from trying to kill you, as I recall.” They both fell uncomfortably silent. That had been quite possibly the most terrifying night of John’s life. The sight of the doctors giving up as Sherlock’s heart refused to start again had hollowed him out; scraped his insides clean until there was nothing there, not even grief. He had just been empty.

He never wanted to feel that way again.

“Sherlock… why did you tell me I could trust her? Because I don’t. I never will again. You know that, right? After what she did to us—“ He stopped, “—t-to you, how could I possibly trust her again?” Before Sherlock could say anything, he plowed ahead, “and please, please don’t try to lie for her, or cover for her. I’ve been lied to enough. I think I deserve the truth. You owe me that much.”

It was blatantly manipulative, but John could’ve cared less right then. He was sick of it. All of it—the lying, the omission, the blaming, the being a pawn to the mind games of people who made him look like an idiot. He met Sherlock’s gaze, refusing to look away until the man swallowed and gave him a short nod.

“Yes, John… you do deserve the truth. You always have and… you’re right, I haven’t been fair to you. You’ve always stood by me, even when I—especially when I didn’t deserve it. I never… I was never… there was never anyone I was inclined to trust before you.” Sherlock’s hands were linked so tight his knuckles paled. He looked as though he was having a great deal of trouble choosing what to say. John realized that he was probably getting some of the most honest words from Sherlock he’d ever heard.

“The reason I told you that, I’m afraid, was a rather selfish one. I needed Mary on my side. I needed her to think I trusted her and had forgiven her. If I hadn’t… I’m not entirely sure what she would have done, and I couldn’t take that risk. It was a move to placate her… and to make sure she wouldn’t suspect you and I were plotting behind her back.”

John sat back, stunned. Suddenly that night made so much more sense. He had always been baffled as to why Sherlock would ever want to have anything to do with Mary after what she’d done. He doesn’t have a choice, though… she’s still your wife, pointed out that tiny voice before he silenced it again.

“So… you don’t trust her either?”

“I…” Sherlock considered. “I trust that she isn’t going to do anything to hurt you or the baby right now. But I think that’s only because she believes she’s won. As long as she has you, she won’t do anything rash. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”

“I’m a prisoner in my own marriage,” breathed John, despair threatening to crash down onto him.

“John?”

He couldn’t say anything. He knew having a baby on the way already trapped him, but hearing what he was most afraid of deep down voiced was too much.

“John, please. I didn’t know what she was before she shot me. I swear. Please… John?”

He clenched his hands.

“John—“

“How could you not know?” he rasped. “YOU. You make a whole living on knowing about peoples’ whole lives at a glance, and you’re telling me there wasn’t ONE thing about Mary that seemed suspicious to you??” He glared at Sherlock, furious. Sherlock looked stricken. His eyes were wide and shiny, so pale they looked almost colorless.

“I didn’t—“

“Or did you know, did you see something, and decide ‘oh, well, John doesn’t need to know. John doesn’t need to know anything except what I tell him because apparently he’s not smart enough or good enough to know what his own best friend is thinking!’” He was all but screaming now, every bit of anger and resentment focused like a laser on Sherlock, who looked so upset that if he was anyone else John would expect them to burst into tears. But this was Sherlock. He didn’t feel things that way.

“John, I didn’t know, please, please believe me. I swear I didn’t know. I… the night I met her, I did deduce that she… was a liar but I didn’t realize the magnitude of what that meant. I would never have dreamt that she was concealing something like this from you. And… I wanted to like her, John. She was there for you, and I was grateful—and she wasn’t… disturbed by me. She fooled me as well as she fooled you, and you’re right, I should have realized sooner that there was something wrong with her. I’m so sorry, John. I’m sorry.”

John stared at him, struck by how genuinely apologetic and regretful Sherlock sounded. Maybe he wasn’t being fair. But he was still furious—he hadn’t realized how much until he’d come to 221B.

“And you still wanted me to go back to her. You said I—that I like that kind of thing. But I hate it in her. I hate the fact that I don’t know what she really is, only that she’s been lying about everything and has no problem killing people for money. I would never—“

“I said you’re abnormally attracted to it. I don’t think… I don’t think you want to be attracted to dangerous people, but you are, John. You know you are. I know how much you want to want a suburban life, raising children, but…”

“You’re right about that,” admitted John, sighing and scrubbing his hands over his face. “You’re right. I hate it. I was so bored, Sherlock, after I got married and I know I sound like a complete arsehole for saying it, but it’s the truth. I still hate it, I mean, a lot more now since everything happened, but… I don’t think I’m suited to this life. And, God, what kind of person does that make me? I mean, I’m dreading the birth of my own daughter. How fucked up is that? And it’s not even that I don’t love her, but once she’s born I’ll have responsibilities that’ll keep me close to home… and Mary.” The rage began to drain slowly from him like a sink with a loose plug. “I miss… I miss this. I miss living here with you, coming on cases with you. And yeah, I do like the excitement, but not because I’m some kind of violence-craving lunatic. It just… doing this, helping people, catching criminals makes me feel alive. Makes me feel like I have some kind of direction in my life.”

Sherlock watched him silently, still wary of another outburst, but nodded for John to go on.

“Sherlock, you have to understand… when you fell, a part of me disappeared that day. It’s never come back. I felt like I lost my purpose. I was just… existing, until Mary came along, but even then it wasn’t the same.” John let out a shuddering sigh and let his head fall into his hands. There. He’d more or less bared his soul for Sherlock to pick over as he wanted. Then he felt a gentle hand on his arm. His head shot up and there was Sherlock, crouched in front of him with an expression John had never seen. It was infinitely tender and open and it made his breath catch. It made him want to look away to protect himself. It was the wedding reception all over again. He swallowed hard.

“John… I owe you a thousand apologies. I didn’t know… I had never realized that you would be so affected.”

John moved his arm slightly, and Sherlock removed his hand. It was almost too much for John to bear right then. Trying to absorb this side of Sherlock, this emotional, empathetic side that had been appearing more and more recently, he took a breath.

“I know. I forgive you Sherlock. I did forgive you, back in November, even though you acted like a complete bastard. I just… how could you not know it wouldn’t affect me?”

“I knew it would in some way, I just… I didn’t know you would be so hurt by it. I didn’t know that I meant that much to you, or that I could mean that much to anyone.”

Oh. Now John felt quite guilty. Sometimes he forgot how confused Sherlock still was that anyone would want to be his friend. He understood that Sherlock recognized the value of his intellect for other people, but that was the only part of himself he offered others; the only part anyone seemed to want. The man was arrogant, infuriating, socially clueless, rude, and tactless, but he was also protective and funny and brave and had a capacity for caring that John found he often disregarded. And Sherlock still didn’t think John care for anything other than his intellect, he realized in a moment of blessed clarity. Oh God. Perhaps the man couldn’t be trusted with John’s heart again, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock, too, tried to be worthy in his own way. He was trying now, and maybe pushing him away in such a vulnerable moment was a shitty thing to do, thought John.

“Sherlock, I… you’re the best friend that I’ve ever had. That I will ever have. Please don’t doubt that. I know I’m rubbish at this but I do… you mean so much to me. And not just your great bloody brain; I know you well enough to know there’s more to you than that.”

Sherlock stared. Worried this would be a repeat of when he asked Sherlock to be his best man, John waved his hand in his face.

“I…” Sherlock blinked and furrowed his brow, trying to understand. His cheeks were pink; he looked devastatingly handsome for a moment and John’s heart ached. “I know… I’m sorry I’m not more worthy of your friendship.”

“How about you let me be the judge of that, Sherlock? Besides, I’m not exactly a sterling example of friendship myself.” John chuckled, less out of mirth than a relieving of tension. “Jesus, we are a pair, aren’t we?”

Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smile, getting up to return to his own chair. Now that John wasn’t shouting at him, he seemed a bit more himself. “No one else would put up with us.”

They smiled at one another, and John felt a little more secure in finally understanding one or two more things. There were still some questions demanding answers—things he wanted settled once and for all.

“Sherlock… when you jumped, it wasn’t just to stop Moriarty, was it? I mean… there was a reason you couldn’t tell me, wasn’t there?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, pained. He nodded. “Moriarty had set up three assassins. One for you, one for Lestrade, one for Mrs. Hudson.” John felt cold. An assassin… it couldn’t be…

“When I was on the roof with him, I realized that Moriarty had backed me into a trap. I had the choice to die or to watch you all be killed. Mycroft… had anticipated something like that but to fake my death was my last resort. Neither of us expected for Moriarty to shoot himself as well. John… I wouldn’t have lied about being dead if I had seen any other option. If you had known, Moriarty would have had you killed. When I was gone… there was no way to safely contact you. I was on the run constantly, and…” He trailed off, a fareaway look in his eyes. John’s heart clenched painfully. What had Sherlock seen while he’d been away? John had never thought to ask. He’d never felt more wrong about anything. When Sherlock had returned, he’d resented him horribly, believing that he’d been abandoned for Sherlock to have some grand adventure without him. How very wrong that assumption had been. Guilt gnawed at his stomach.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk about what happened right now, Sherlock. I think I understand… why you had to do it, even if I don’t like how you went about it. You think he’s back, then?”

Sherlock shook his head. John lurched halfway out of his chair.

“You don’t think it was him?”

“I spoke to Molly as soon as I was home again. She said the body that they’d gotten… the brain stem was definitely pierced. He’d bled to death almost instantly. And I was there, John… there was a great deal of blood, among other things.”

John took a deep breath, considering. On one hand, knowing that Moriarty was definitely dead was a huge relief. But on the other…

“So if it’s not him…”

“You know who it is,” said Sherlock grimly.

John stared blankly. How in the world was he supposed to know?

Think. Someone who knew Magnussen’s fate and knew that Sherlock was being sent away on that M16 mission. Someone who needed to time it so it would…

Oh…

“…Mycroft?” It made perfect, horrible sense.

“Yes. He broadcast a false message to bring me back, to force the M16’s hand and ensure that the plane would turn around.”

“Wait, he was the one who sent you!”

“It was the only fate he could negotiate for me, but not the one he wanted. When I killed Magnussen, I forced Mycroft into a delicate position.”

“He brought you back. What would have happened if he hadn’t?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, looking away guiltily.

“Sherlock, wh—oh my God.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Sherlock, wh—Jesus Christ.” John sprang up and began pacing, full of so much nervous energy he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“John, I—“

“Shut up, Sherlock, my God. I… They were going to send you off to die, weren’t they? That was what ‘six months’ meant. How long Mycroft thought you were going to last. Christ.” He felt sick to his stomach.

“The anticipated timeframe was closer to four.”

“That doesn’t help! My God—you weren’t going to tell me, were you? You were going off to die—for real this time—and you weren’t going to tell me. Again.”

“I told you as best I could.” Sherlock looked truly guilty, and this time John felt less rage at him and more just general helpless fury. “It was top secret, and I was forbidden from mentioning it to anyone. Even our parents didn’t know what was going to happen to me. They didn’t even know I’d shot Magnussen.”

“Yeah, I know, international political bullshit. Why did you shoot him, Sherlock? I mean, don’t get me wrong, the man was scum, but…” John picked over the plate of toast, which had gone cold in the last hour (hours? He couldn’t remember how long he’d been here) and plunked himself in his chair again.

Sherlock didn’t respond for a long time.

“For the same reason I jumped, John.”

“To… protect people.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened. He didn’t look satisfied with John’s response and simply sat there, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“To protect… oh. Right.” A hot flush crept into John’s face as he glanced down at the uneaten toast in his hand. For someone who claimed not to care or know a thing about love, Sherlock, certainly seemed to have the hang of selfless sacrifice. He thought about the way the man had risked dying yet again to force a confrontation with Mary, all to make sure John knew the truth about his wife.

Finally John remembered half the reason he’d come here.

“Oh—right… Sherlock, I was in our bedroom closet—Mary’s and mine—I found… god, it was like her whole criminal record in a box. She’s been keeping all these files in a box buried in the back of the closet under all her old uni stuff, or whatever the hell it really is.”

Sherlock leaned forward, deductive interest piqued. There was the detective John knew (or at least the side of Sherlock John could understand right now). “Really! What was in there, do you remember?”

“Ohhh yeah. She had contracts, false I’Ds, all kinds of stuff. Also there was a lot about some kind of CIA project she was involved in. Um… does the name ‘Garrideb’ mean anything to you?”

“Garrideb… Mmmm… Mycroft may have mentioned it in passing once? Didn’t really pay attention to it, M16 stuff, plus it was Mycroft talking and I generally tune him out. What is it?”

“Some kind of… top assassin group, I think? It’s what A.G.R.A. stands for. They’re not just her initials, they’re her code name. Her name in the CIA was Rachel Adamson. A.G. stands for ‘Alpha Garrideb,’ so I guess she was top dog. Put them all together…”

“…A.G.R.A.,” finished Sherlock, looking intensely at nowhere in particular. “Fascinating. I was almost sure she was lying when she said those were her initials. I suppose I was half-right.”

“Well, there was a whole list of profiles in there. I recognized Sebastian Moran—“

“You knew Sebastian Moran?” asked Sherlock sharply.

“Yeah, well not personally, but I remember that he got dishonorably discharged for killing prisoners. How do you know him?”

“He was one of Moriarty’s top assassins. It took almost a year to finally track him down and get rid of him. He… he was the one who was going to… kill you… the day I jumped.” John felt a lump of ice fall into his gut at that unpleasant little revelation.

“Is he dead, Sherlock?” he asked quietly. Sherlock nodded, lips tight. “Then that’s all I need to know.”

John wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed until Mrs. Hudson poked her head in, asking if they would like supper. He glanced outside, alarmed. The rain had stopped but the sky was black, the glare of a streetlamp illuminating drops on the windowpane. Shit. He hadn’t thought to check his phone—Mary might be wondering where he was. The last thing he needed was her interrogating him on where he’d gone. Maybe she wasn’t back yet.

He checked his phone. Well, that was odd. Usually there’d be at least a Where are you? or an I’m making chicken, I’ll leave some out for you or if she was feeling especially mean If you’re out with Sherlock again just sleep on the couch. I hate when you wake me up at 3 AM. Tonight there was nothing. Maybe he was in the clear?

“Do you need to get home, John? I have been keeping you.”

“No. No, it’s fine. I think Mary’s out. Um… but I probably should be getting home. She doesn’t know I’m here and she tends to… well, we fight a lot more when she knows I’ve seen you.”

He couldn’t quite read the expression on Sherlock’s face. He still wasn’t even entirely sure what the man thought of Mary at this point.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” No, it wasn’t, was it? he thought firmly, sure of at least this fact. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John’s marriage was a disaster. Not his fault that his lying murderer of a wife had shot him in cold blood. Yeah, Sherlock’s return had certainly changed their relationship, but what had it even been before then? John’s way of getting over Sherlock. It had been something, but it paled in comparison to his life with Sherlock. And now he couldn’t even pretend to be happy with Mary. Sherlock had tried his hardest to get the couple to reconcile, even if it ultimately seemed like a futile effort. “I just… I’m so tired of it, Sherlock. Some days it feels like the only reason I’m staying is because of the baby.”

Sherlock gave him a sympathetic look. “I know. I am sorry, John. Do you think you could try to hold out for a few more months? Once the baby’s born, we might be able to do something about Mary. Or A.G.R.A. or whatever she is. But if we do anything now, there’s a good chance you’ll never see your daughter. Waiting would give you a better chance of fighting for custody of her, at least.”

John nodded; he’d thought of this very plan himself multiple times. In fact, he’d suggested it; stay married to her until a little after the baby was born, and then look into divorce options. He supposed he should have felt more guilty about it, but what faint love he still retained for the fake Mary was nothing compared to the loathing, the mistrust, and the anger he would always feel towards her for what she’d done.

As he got up to leave, he had a sudden thought. “Sherlock… you read the flash drive, didn’t you?”

Sherlock glanced away, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Are you angry?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sherlock, I’m angry, about a lot of things; not this. I want to know… was there anything on it?”

“No.” Sherlock finally met his glance and John quietly seethed. He’d suspected the drive would be empty but to hear it still drove another nail of anger into the coffin of his marriage.

“I figured. Just needed to hear it.”

“You’re angry with me.” It wasn’t a question; Sherlock could read him like a book.

“Yeah, I’m angry. But then again it seems like everyone’s jerking me around these days, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” It was an incredibly cruel thing to say, but he was sick of feeling like a pawn, and it was nastily satisfying to see Sherlock flinch. Good. He deserved it, the manipulative bastard. He shoved away the immediate wellspring of guilt that appeared when he looked at Sherlock’s hurt face.

“John… I…”

“Don’t. You’ve already apologized, and there’s nothing you can say right now that’s going to fix it or stop me from being angry, ok? Just let me be angry right now.” He was sick of being angry; it felt like he was constantly furious at the world these days, but it wouldn’t go away.

“… Alright. I… I hope you understand… I never wanted to hurt you, or make you feel like you weren’t worth anything to me. I’ve come to regret a lot of the decisions I made regarding you. Maybe if… maybe if I’d let myself trust in you a little more things would have turned out differently. John… I do appreciate you. More than you realize. I’m sorry for how I am.”

John felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard, blinking and looking away from Sherlock’s face. There it was again, the side of Sherlock that was so human, so pure and beautiful and utterly terrifying in its honesty. Too much.

“I… ok. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.” The door clicked softly shut behind him and he almost wanted to tear it open again, grab Sherlock, and… what? He didn’t let himself think about the possibilities, closing the door firmly on that part of his mind before his imagination got out of control.

 

What did it matter what he felt for Sherlock? It was too late. He was married, and even if he wasn’t… even if he wasn’t, how could he give his heart to Sherlock when it would just be crushed again? He may have been in love with a self-proclaimed sociopath; that didn’t mean he had to do anything about it.

Feeling like a prisoner on his way to the gallows, he began walking home.


	3. Enough

His time with Sherlock had taught him an incredibly useful skill: observation. John, being a soldier, wasn’t really a slump in the environmental awareness department, but living with a man who made observation his business had done a lot to sharpen his skills. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

When he saw an unfamiliar pair of male shoes lined up next to his by the front door, a low buzz of alarm started up in his skull. Even stronger was the wave of dread that flooded his stomach. It was a strange sensation, a premonition his conscious mind didn’t quite grasp yet.

There were muffled voices coming from the bedroom. Soft laughs. Moans.

What shocked John the most was how unsurprised he felt. Pissed, sure. Betrayed? Oh yeah. Surprised?

Well, after everything else, infidelity almost seemed like a nice, normal marital problem to have.

John shut the door behind him gently, wondering if they’d already heard and simply didn’t care. Dropping his keys into the bowl on the coffee table, he walked towards the bedroom, deliberately placing his foot on the squeakiest boards.

The noises in the bedroom were silenced, and there was the sound of frantic movement, most likely Mary and whoever else was in there throwing on their clothing in a panic. The door creaked open and David peeked out, looking sheepish. John stared stonily at him.

“Uh… hi, John.”

“How long?”

“John—“ Mary appeared next to David, the look on her face almost identical to the one she wore when her true identity had been revealed to him in Leinster Gardens.

“No, you know what, I—don’t even bother right now. I’m not fucking dealing with this.” He turned on his heel, grabbed his keys and made sure to slam the front door hard behind him this time. He needed a drink. Preferably something very, very strong.

*

John returned in the wee hours of the morning, when the streets were mostly silent, glistening gently in the streetlights. He had barely managed a good buzz; so many emotions struggling inside he could hardly stomach his whiskey.

Mary was sitting stiffly on the couch, her fingers twisted together tightly enough that her knuckles were white, her face drawn and tense. He collapsed in the chair opposite of her, feeling a faint wave of revulsion. Maybe he should have been more upset, but then again he had no idea who she even was. Well, he had an idea of it, but who knew how much of that was even genuine documentation? The woman sitting in front of him was a smokescreen. He really shouldn’t have been surprised; if she didn’t trust him with her identity, maybe it was too much to ask for fidelity in their collapsing card house of a marriage. Maybe when she was with David, she wasn’t even ‘Mary.’

“How long?” he asked softly after a while.

“It… it was only supposed to be a few times, before we got married, I… it never meant anything.”

“And you’re still seeing him.”

She looked away, kneading her fingers over her growing belly. A thought struck him, a question that he had a feeling he already knew the answer to.

“Is the baby?…”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to; the look on her face spoke volumes.

“Christ, Mary—“

“I only had the test a few months ago! When you left me.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He pushed his fingers into his eyes, rubbing furiously. “And I don’t suppose you were going to tell me that, either?”

She shrugged, picking at the leg of her sweatpants. Her indifference made him want to smack her. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. You were going to leave either way.”

“Oh, thanks a lot of the bloody vote of confidence.”

She rolled her eyes, glaring at him. “Oh please. Ever since Sherlock decided to expose me, I knew it was over. I mean, you left me for six months, John, I think that rather speaks for itself! I’m not stupid; I know you haven’t forgiven me and you don’t trust me. You’ve wanted to leave for ages; you just needed an excuse.” He was surprised to see her eyes looked rather wet.

“You haven’t exactly given me any reasons to trust you,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, furious at her nerve and at how alarmingly true her accusations were. “As the forgiveness… I tried, Mary, I did but I’m sorry… I can’t. Not after what you did.”

“I did what I had to do, John. Sherlock didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

“You could have done something other than shoot him!”

“I saved his life!”

“You killed him!” John sprang up, blazingly angry. “He flat-lined on the table, Mary. He was clinically dead! I don’t know how the hell he managed to drag himself back but it sure as hell wasn’t thanks to you! And you would have been perfectly happy to just let me bury him if he’d died, wouldn’t you?”

She only continued to look at him with that familiar reptilian gaze he’d first seen at 221B and he knew it then: he didn’t love her anymore. Not at all. There was nothing more that remained for this woman beyond anger, disgust, and a lingering feeling of regret. And he had loved her—well, he’d loved her genuinely, and then tried to love her after… after everything. But this was the last straw.

“I want a divorce.”

Her expression became colder. “You can’t leave.”

“Oh really? Watch me.” He turned and marched into the bedroom, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sex and unfamiliar cologne. She followed as he yanked his army duffel out of the closet and began throwing clothing into it.

“You said you’d say. You promised, John, if you’ll recall. Was that just a lie, then?”

He whirled around. “I would stay if I had anything to stay for!” he snapped, stuffing a few t-shirts into his bag.

She looked like he had slapped her. “You don’t love me.”

He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath through his nose, trying to calm himself. “No. No, Mary, I’m sorry. I don’t. I tried—I wanted to—I don’t. I did, when I married you.”

Her mouth trembled. “John… please. I need you.”

“Don’t ask me to stay here, Mary. I can’t. I can’t do this anymore—it’s killing me. I’m miserable; you’re miserable, and on top of all that our child isn’t even ours.”

At the mention of her daughter, Mary dropped one hand to her stomach. “So you’re just going to walk out on your eight-month pregnant wife, then?”

“Maybe you should give David a call,” he shot back. “Or have you not told him it’s his yet?”

“He knows,” she hissed. “I told him when I got the test.”

“Another thing you were going to keep from me, indefinitely. You’ve lied to me about everything—I don’t even know your real name—and you’re asking me to stay with you? I know the flash drive was empty, by the way,” he said, hooking the duffel over his shoulder. He grabbed his phone and composed a brief text.

Baby isn’t mine. Need a place to stay. JW

The response was less than a minute in coming.

Of course.

“Is that Sherlock?” she asked, ignoring his jab about the flash drive. “You’re just crawling back to him again, just like you always do. Just like you did when he came back and laughed in your face—you just went back to him like some loyal pet. It’s really kind of pathetic, John.” There were no traces of placation in her voice now.

Loyal pet. The phrase rankled him, brought back memories of chlorine and Semtex and his arm wrapped around Jim Moriarty’s skinny neck. He willed himself not to shout again.

“I’m going back to him because he’s my best mate, because he actually gives a damn about my wellbeing, and because at least I bloody know who Sherlock Holmes is.”

She snorted. “You think you’re going to get sympathy and understanding from a man like him? I saw what he did to you. He’ll never give you what you need, John. He’ll never give you what I can.”

He stopped short. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She held his gaze, unblinking and unconcerned with how angry he was. “Oh, don’t play stupid, John. Everyone knows you’re as madly in love with him as a person can get. I knew from the day you started talking about him. If you’re hoping somehow that he loves you back, you’re just fooling yourself. He’ll just use you until he gets bored with you again and finds some other distraction.”

Angry, shameful heat flooded his face. He had nothing to say to this; she was right, he was madly in love—was it that obvious? But she was wrong—she didn’t know Sherlock. Frankly he wasn’t sure anyone knew the Sherlock he did.

“You don’t know Sherlock, and frankly, you’re the last person who should be trashing him, considered everything he did for you. I don’t suppose you ever thanked him for shooting Magnussen?” She crossed her arms defensively. “No, I didn’t think so.”

“So you are in love with him.”

John acquiesced; what did he have to gain from trying to hide this from her? She knew anyhow, and it didn’t matter anymore. “Yeah. I am. And I know I’ll never be with him that way, but you know what? I’d rather spend the rest of my life not having him than spend one more minute in this house with you.”

She gave him a look so ugly and cold he was surprised that icicles weren’t sprouting in the doorway. “Fine. Get out. And when he breaks you again, don’t bother to come crawling back.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” It was nearly 3 AM at this point, quite cold and entirely dark but for the streetlamps. John stepped out into the cold, turning up his coat collar. It was surreal; he was really doing it. Mary stood in the doorway, arms crossed against the chill, still giving him that creepy reptilian glare.

“I’ll… send you the annulment papers, then?” he asked awkwardly as he started walking.

“Fine. Goodbye, John.” The ferocity of the door slam somewhat undercut her calm response.

There was nothing for it but to start walking.

*

Around 4 AM he let himself in silently and made his way up the steps, remembering just in time to avoid the squeaky one as he got to the entrance of the flat. Just as he’d guessed, it was unlocked. There was one light on but no Sherlock to be found. John wondered if the man was actually asleep at a reasonable hour for once.

He was about to head upstairs when the door to Sherlock’s room slowly swung open. Sherlock stood in the doorway, still in his suit, looking like he’d just woken up.

“John.”

“Sherlock. Hi. I thought you were asleep, sorry.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Mind palace. Wanted to see you when you got in.” He wasn’t looking John in the eyes.

John nodded, feeling guilty. He hadn’t been very kind when last they’d spoke, even though Sherlock still had a lot to atone for in his opinion. Sherlock had been making an effort to be more honest with him, and now he was letting him stay at Baker Street. Which, John reminded himself, was technically no longer his home.

“Well. Um… listen, it’s been kind of a long night—“

“Of course, you must be tired—“

“I’m just gonna go—“

“Yes. Good. You should go to bed.”

John nodded, feet feeling like lead as he began to climb the stairs. He turned ‘round to look back at Sherlock, who was still standing awkwardly in the living room like he’d wound up in the wrong flat. He blinked up at John, his eyes nearly luminous in the dim light. John felt his stomach flip.

“Hey—Sherlock, thanks for letting me stay.”

Sherlock’s face softened. “Always, John.”

John nodded and tromped off to his room. Only bothering to take his shoes and jacket off, he tossed his duffel onto the floor and flopped onto his old, familiar bed, passing out not long after.

*

John woke up very disoriented, blinking in the bright light streaming in between his curtains. He didn’t remember his curtains being blue—Oh yeah. Right.

He’d actually done it. He’d left her. Did he regret it? John considered. If it had been his kid she’d been pregnant with, he probably wouldn’t have left, no matter how angry he would have been. Maybe she’d been right; he had been looking for a reason and the infidelity gave him a perfect one. The baby still had a mother and father—he was surprised by the pang in his chest. Maybe fatherhood just wasn’t in the cards for him.

And anyways, the baby would be better off without a dad like him.

Grabbing his toiletry case, he made his way downstairs—he needed a shower, badly. He wondered if Sherlock was bothering to keep any food in the house. Speaking of Sherlock, there he was, looking impeccable as usual, peering into his microscope. He glanced up when he heard John.

“Morning.”

“Good afternoon,” replied Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

John groaned. “Oh god, is it really? Shit.”

Sherlock frowned. “What’s the problem? You don’t have work today and you hardly got any sleep last night.”

“I just didn’t mean to sleep in so late,” replied John, ruffling his hair and yawning. Sherlock looked at him intensely for a moment before turning back to his experiment.

“Mrs. Hudson brought up some bread this morning. There are eggs in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Really! Thanks,” grinned John and Sherlock gave him a Look. Still smiling, John made his way to the bathroom.

After a good long shower and general sprucing up, he felt a bit more like himself—though still disconcerted by all that had happened yesterday. The sight of his toothbrush lined up next to Sherlock’s on the sink made him feel a little more settled, though. There was the matter of where he was actually going to live to attend to—he hadn’t exactly asked Mrs. Hudson to move back in, nor had he actually really asked Sherlock—just demanded a place to stay and Sherlock had been willing to share the flat.

And… well there was still… where did he even stand with Sherlock now?

He made lunch and Sherlock carried out his experiment in amicable silence, and it almost felt like the old days again, at least until Sherlock brought up a good point.

“Are you going back to Mary?”

“What?” John turned, still holding the spatula. “No. I’m not giving her anymore chances. I caught her—and David—no. It’s not worth it anymore. The kid isn’t even mine—and I know I sound like a terrible person for saying this, but you know the baby was the only reason I was staying at this point. Without her—what’s the point?”

“So…”

“So, I… well, if you’re willing, Sherlock, I’d like to come home. Permanently.” He was already mentally listing back-up plans if Sherlock turned him down. Which he has every right to, after the way I’ve treated him, admonished the little voice in his head.

“Of course, John. You’re always welcome here.” Sherlock looked happy. There was no trace of the sociopathic façade as his earnest gaze met John’s relieved one. John felt himself smiling in spite of himself.

“Thank you. I mean it, Sherlock, thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. And I’m sorry I’ve been such a shithead lately. It’s been rough, but—I mean, that doesn’t justify how I’ve been treating you. I… sorry.”

Sherlock colored and looked down at his slides, nudging them around with a finger. “It’s nothing, John,” he mumbled bashfully, looking uncomfortable with all the emotional openness in the room. John took pity on him.

“It’s everything Sherlock. But—um—well, anyways, yes, I’m definitely staying. I can’t go back to her again.”

Sherlock nodded, still staring at the table. John sat across from him with his eggs and toast and began to eat in silence.

“It is possible that she’ll attempt to retaliate,” the detective finally said, deftly switching slides under his lens.

John swallowed; he’d thought of that as well. “Yeah. I know. Well, if she does, we’ll have a better idea of what to expect this time.” Well. He hoped so anyhow; it was true that she had taken Sherlock completely by surprise when she’d shot him, but just because they knew she was a crack shot didn’t mean they knew the extent of her abilities.

Suddenly he realized something else. “You suspected it, didn’t you? That the baby might not be mine.”

Sherlock sighed. “It was definitely a possibility. There was no way to be certain without proper DNA tests, and Mary is very, very good. She’s covered all her trails—except the evidence you found in her closet, and I’m still not sure why that’s there. I had three hypotheses: that it was yours, that it was someone else’s, or that there was no baby at all.”

“You think she’d be able to fake a pregnancy that far? I mean… I am a doctor, wouldn’t that have been pretty risky to try?”

“John, how much were you around her when she was visibly pregnant? Truly?”

Not much, he admitted to himself. And they hadn’t exactly been sleeping together much since she’d shot Sherlock, let alone had sex. “David’s the father,” he added.

Sherlock didn’t exactly look surprised. “Ah. So it wasn’t just pining after all; there was something going on behind the scenes.”

John remembered how terrified David had been of Sherlock at the wedding. “Please don’t tell me you thought she was sleeping with him behind my back then.”

“I didn’t think that exactly; I did think that if there was any possibility of infidelity on her side it would be with him. Tried to nip it in the bud before the wedding; obviously I was already too late. She was pregnant with his child before you were even married.”

“God.” John sat back, feeling incredibly stupid for having not noticed a thing before it was too late. “She played us for complete idiots.”

Any response Sherlock had planned with interrupted by a trilling from his phone. “Case, John! Shooting and the body was stuffed into the freezer of a seafood restaurant, excellent! Come on!” Bursting with energy, he jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat and scarf, then looked back at the doctor.

“Are you… do you want to come, John?”

“Are you joking?” John grinned, feeling his heart pound in anticipation. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Maybe he’d never get to be with Sherlock. But God, how he had missed this.


	4. For Better or Worse

Living with Sherlock again was strange, but not in the way that John expected. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, precisely—not for them to go back to the way they were before the Fall, that was for certain, but not this either. It had taken him a few weeks to pin down just what exactly was bothering him about Sherlock’s behavior before he’d finally realized.

Sherlock was being careful with him.

Now, granted, John was still pretty fragile, but he felt like he was doing much better every day. The first few days had passed in somewhat of a haze, a fog of disbelief that he’d actually done it, he’d finally left her. There was a lot of relief, mixed with triumph, mixed with a fair amount of guilt and uncertainty. Not uncertainty about his decision—he knew he wasn’t going back, but about the actual divorce. Would Mary actually agree to it? What would happen if she came after him? What if she left the country and disappeared, leaving him effectively still legally married to her with no way to dissolve it? Maybe he should contact Mycroft?

There had been nightmares too. Visceral dreams of a new flavor, where Mary would appear in her red coat with murder in her eyes and Sherlock would fall with a hole in his chest and John was never fast enough to reach him, like his legs were mired in tar. He’d wake up sweating and panting and reminding himself that Sherlock was still here and whole and alive. There were a lot of tense meals, where he could tell Sherlock wanted to say something and was holding himself back. There were a few memorable showdowns where John had shouted, sometimes while drunk, and then felt extremely guilty afterwards, apologizing profusely for his temper while Sherlock tried to wave it off. But time went by, and the more time passed, the better John felt.

The months crept by and John felt more and more himself. He quit his job at the clinic, finding it too painful and uncomfortable to work in a place where he chanced running into Mary. But there was still something wrong. Sherlock was treating him like he might fall apart or explode any moment, and it was both bizarre and very irritating. He took him to cases, but then constantly asked him if he needed to go home, or if he was tired, or if he wanted to eat. He was being polite, which was just plain out of character, and while theoretically it should have been a nice change, it didn’t feel right. John knew Sherlock could be a rude bastard, and loved him for it anyhow, because he knew that Sherlock also had the capacity to be very kind, almost empathetic, when the situation called for it. But this wasn’t natural; this was a cautious, practiced politeness that John only saw used on witnesses and people Sherlock felt needed to be manipulated. There was also a distinct lack of body parts cluttering up the fridge and spread over the table. Sherlock’s experiments were small, quiet, and kept sealed out of sight. Why? It wasn’t like John wasn’t used to living with them.

Sherlock wasn’t being Sherlock; Sherlock was being nice. It was different than when Sherlock was being genuinely kind or thoughtful. John knew when Sherlock was being genuine. This was an act, a careful set of behavior being played out to… pacify John? Ease him into being back at 221B?

Oh. Did Sherlock think this was what John wanted? An attempt at normalcy, a chance to pretend he didn’t live with a mad genius?

Was he scared of John leaving him again?

Oh.

He needed to straighten out his flat mate as soon as possible.

John pounced on the issue over dinner the next night, when the two of them visited their favorite Chinese after a case that Sherlock had angrily declared to be “no higher than a six! Call me when you have something worth my time, Lestrade!” He plucked a chicken dumpling from his bowl and cut it, popping a half into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully before launching into it,

“Sherlock, listen… um, I appreciate you being so patient with me. This hasn’t been easy for me—well, it’s getting easier—but, um… well, I noticed you’ve been acting a bit… odd.”

Sherlock was avoiding eye contact, but John didn’t miss the way his shoulders stiffened. “Odd how?” he responded coolly, stirring his fork through the shrimp fried rice John had managed to convince him to order.

“Just… you’re acting weird around me. Like you’re worried I’m going to… yell at you or something.”

Sherlock frowned, stabbing at a fried vegetable and eating it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John sighed, putting his hands down on the table and leaning forward. “Yes you do. Look. I… you’re acting… nice. And not nice, like, you’re being more thoughtful once in a while. You’re being weirdly nice. It’s not you. Just… stop, ok?”

Sherlock finally looked at him, and he definitely seemed offended now. “Would you rather I act like none of this happened, John? Is being considerate to someone going through a difficult time not what a best friend is supposed to do?”

“Hold on, Sherlock, I think you’re misunderstanding me—I’m not saying I don’t appreciate you trying to be considerate, I’m just saying—you don’t have to treat me like I’m a bomb about to go off. That’s what’s been bothering me—you’re not acting like you, and it feels like… I don’t know, you’re appeasing me or something. You don’t need to do that.”

He searched Sherlock’s face, hoping he understood. The irritation began to fade away and Sherlock’s iridescent eyes dipped back down to his meal, which was probably cold now. John waited, not wanting to provoke him. If he pushed, Sherlock would become defensive and withdraw, and they’d never get anywhere. John was no fan of deep emotional discussions, but this was one that needed to be had. This and quite a few others…

“I… don’t want to upset you, John. Or make you angry.”

John swallowed. That made a lot of sense—after every angry outburst John had had, Sherlock had always been more cautious and polite in the days following. John guiltily admitted to himself that he had been very short-tempered and rude in first week or two upon returning, probably a lot more so than Sherlock deserved. Not to mention the times he’d gotten drunk and yelled all sorts of terrible things. No wonder Sherlock was walking on eggshells these days.

“Oh, Sherlock, I…” John put his fork down. Suddenly he wasn’t in the mood for dumplings. “I’m sorry. I never meant… you’re right, I’ve been pretty on the edge lately. And I don’t think I’ve been fair to you. You let me come back and basically act like a dick to you. You don’t deserve to have me treat you like that after everything that’s already happened.”

“John—“

“Wait, let me finish.” Sherlock nodded. “I know I’ve messed up a lot, but I’ve been getting better. I am trying, Sherlock, I promise. And I can’t promise that you’ll never annoy me or piss me off, but you shouldn’t feel like you have to tiptoe around me, ok? I’m sorry I’ve been making you feel like you have to.”

To his surprise, Sherlock flushed and looked away again. A long silence fell. John sipped his tea and watched people walk past the storefront. Finally Sherlock nodded and turned back to John, still looking a bit shy. John wondered why. It was a rather attractive look on the man.

“Agreed. I’ll… be more like myself.”

John chuckled. “Good. Though, I have to say, I haven’t been minding a cleaner fridge.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, gave John that particular smile that seemed reserved for him (John’s heart may have done a little flip) and snagged one of his dumplings. John made a half-hearted grab for it with fake annoyance. What he really wanted to do was lean across the table, catch Sherlock’s hand, and kiss him, and was startled by how natural that response felt. Bloody hell. He was hopeless. But already he could feel the tension between them dissipating.

They decided to walk home, and by the time they got to the door Sherlock definitely seemed more relaxed. John smiled at him, feeling ridiculously happy. They would never go back to the way they were, but the way forward didn’t look so bleak anymore.

*

Mary’s retribution did come, and despite the fact that John had been sort of expecting it in the back of his mind, it still caught him by surprise, much to his horror. He’d gone out that afternoon to pick up some groceries and drop off his resumes at a few prospective medical centers (it was wonderful to be able to go on cases all the time with Sherlock, but John felt guilty for not having anything else to do and not contributing an income to the flat). He picked up a bottle of wine on the way home on a whim, thinking that he and Sherlock could maybe have a nice night in and he’d be able to coax the lazy genius into helping with dinner.

It was disconcertingly quiet as he ascended the stairs. Wait, no, that wasn’t quite true. There were voices coming up the stairs, but they sounded tense and angry. Probably not Mrs. Hudson popping in to talk to Sherlock then. He frowned, trying to listen. His blood ran cold.

Mary.

“I didn’t surprise you a bit this time, did I?”

“Not really.” Sherlock’s voice was cool and detached, but there was a vein of deep anger beneath that only those who knew him really well could detect.

“Ah well. Either way, you’ll be dead, so it doesn’t really matter. John darling,” she called, and John froze. “Just come in already, I heard you ten minutes ago.”

John slowly entered the flat, making sure to keep his hands in sight. His heart raced as he took in the sight before him. Mary was clad in black assassin gear (how had she kept that from him?) and was pointed a silenced pistol squarely at Sherlock’s face. Her stomach was completely flat and he wondered where the baby was. Sherlock, for his part, was standing in front of the coffee table with his hands by his chest, staring coldly at Mary. John cursed himself silently; his gun was locked in the safe in his room, out of sight and entirely useless. Stupid! He should have left it somewhere easily accessible in case this happened.

“Over next to Sherlock, if you please,” said Mary lightly, gesturing with the gun. He toyed briefly with the idea of trying to take her out now but her reflexes were not to be taken lightly—she’d have a bullet in his brain before he’d taken two steps. Grimacing, he went to stand over by Sherlock, thinking furiously.

“Well, isn’t this nice. Just like old times, the three of us together.”

“Just about,” agreed John, speaking almost pleasantly. “David’s with the baby then, I suppose?”

“Yes. Once I take care of you two I’m taking them and getting out of Britain. We’ll start a new life somewhere else. Somewhere better than this dump of a city.” She slowly dropped her British accent as she spoke—it now sounded something closer to Midwestern American.

“Hmm. So, A.G.R.A…. or should I say Rachel? That is your name isn’t it?” asked Sherlock, almost smirking when her eyes widened slightly. “Let me guess: born in America, fell in the with the CIA in your late teens, early 20’s, and then quit to pursue criminal work in Europe?”

“Ah. You read my files then. Sorry if you were looking for anything incriminating—I only left what wouldn’t damage me if John saw and destroyed the rest. Of course that means you missed the most obvious clue, but then again since you’re about to die there’s no harm in you knowing now, I suppose.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised. “Of course. Of course! Stupid, how could I not have realized it sooner?”

She smiled humorlessly. “Yes. I worked for Moriarty. And yes, Sebastian and I were his top gunmen, his most loyal aides. Of course, after the boss killed himself, Sebastian went into Eastern Europe to try to mobilize what was left of the criminal empire, while I was left to my own devises here. I shed my former identity and became Mary Morstan—“

“—And started working as a nurse in the clinic I just happened to work at, of course. It’s all so obvious now,” finished John, eying her coldly. She glared at him.

“I loved you. I knew I wanted to be with you ever since I saw you through my scope in the pool—“ John gasped, and he felt Sherlock stiffen beside him “—and you needed me too, after he abandoned you. You needed me and loved me and it could have been perfect, but you—“ She jerked her head at Sherlock, “—had to come back and spoil everything. Any chance I had for a normal life was ruined the moment you showed up in London again.” The complete lack of anything resembling human warmth in her tone or demeanor infuriated John.

“I wanted things to work between us, Mary, you having shot Sherlock was not his fault,” retorted John.

She shrugged. “Well, the only thing that went wrong was that I wasn’t careful enough. You survived, but I won’t make that mistake again. You two took away my chance at happiness. Now I’m going to return the favor. Sherlock, you’re finally going to pay for every bit of pain you put me through. I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”

The gun barrel swung away from Sherlock, aiming right at John’s heart.

“Goodbye, John.”

Time seemed to slow down. John lunged at her, his feet digging into the carpet much too slowly—he reached out—Mary’s hand jerked in surprise as the gun went off—

Pain pain pain pain—

John’s leg felt like it was exploding but he grabbed the gun, yanking it from her, and struck her in the temple. The two of them collapsed and the gun bounced off—

Someone was shouting—

John feebly reached down to try to stem the profuse bleeding from his thigh. Had she hit an artery? He tried to think but the pain was so intense. “Sherlock?”

“John! John, no, John, oh God no, no please…” Sherlock was by his side in an instant, gently cradling him with one arm while trying to compress the wound. “John, stay with me, look at me, please!”

He blinked up at the detective, wondering vaguely why his face looked so wet. Why was Sherlock crying? Why would… oh.

“Sher…”

“John, hang on… don’t leave me, John…”

As John’s conscious mind was overwhelmed by the agony of the wound and decided to shut down until further notice, one final thought flickered through it.

How could I be so blind?


	5. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's lonely days are over. Let the fluff commence!

He was in Afghanistan, and there was gunfire everywhere, and his shoulder was on fire and the air and the desert and everything was burning burning burning—

His eyes snapped open and he drew a shaky breath, his pulse pounding so loudly it was the only thing he heard at first. Then John registered his left leg. Specifically that it was throbbing dully, in a way that suggested temporary relief from severe pain that would return if he tried any sudden movements. Morphine, he thought dully.

His next thought was that he was in a hospital bed, that the walls were very white, and it was quiet except for his breathing and the steady beep of the heart monitor, and that he had no idea where Sherlock was.

He coughed. “Sherlock?”

“John?” A wild tangle of black hair popped into his vision and he almost laughed with relief. John tried to sit up but his leg flared in warning and he slumped back onto the pillow with a groan.

“John, please be careful—she didn’t hit an artery but you lost a great deal of blood on the way here and you’ve been passed out for the past 24 hours. They were able to remove the bullet during surgery but you’re going to have a scar on your thigh. There was also—“

John weakly raised a hand, cutting off Sherlock’s frantic babbling. He’d never seen the man look so worried and it made his heart ache. He was fine, and he needed Sherlock to know that.

“Sherlock—Sherlock, will you calm down? I’m ok. I need you to answer a few questions though.”

Sherlock’s mouth closed with an audible click and he nodded slightly, still looking tense. His eyes were red-rimmed with heavy bags underneath and he looked paler than usual. Without thinking, John reached out and placed his hand gently over Sherlock’s, ignoring how his eyes widened in response. He reached out and also turned down the morphine. He needed a clear head for this.

“Where are we?”

“Bart’s. Mycroft managed to get a private room.”

“Mycro—of course he did.” John made a mental note to thank the man. “Now. Where is Mary?”

Sherlock scowled. “In the custody of M16. She’ll be answering for two counts of attempted murder, and three counts of battery, not to mention the numerous acts of terrorism she’s committed while working for Moriarty. She’s on the most wanted lists of at least 13 European nations. It should be quite a trial. I don’t imagine we’ll be seeing her anytime soon.”

John let out a long sigh—of regret, of acceptance, but most of all of relief. Finally. Finally he and Sherlock would be free of the biggest mistake of his life.

“So—the divorce—“

“Well, apparently since she married you under a false identity, the marriage isn’t valid. So that’s… that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was a very forced gesture. “Mycroft was happy to take care of all of that, I think. It helps him sleep at night to know he finally has her in a holding cell.”

“Helps me too,” muttered John, mentally adding a few things to his list of reasons to thank Mycroft. Then he remembered something. “What about her baby?”

Sherlock looked down to their joined hands and carefully, timidly, rubbed his thumb over John’s knuckles. “David will be taken in for questioning. It’s most likely that he had no idea what Mary was, but Mycroft wants to make sure. If it all checks out, he’ll keep her, I suppose, and raise her on his own. If not, she’ll go to a foster family. John… I know she isn’t your child, but I know that she mattered a great deal to you once. If… if it turns out David is affiliated, and you wanted custody… you could have it.”

John’s eye widened at what Sherlock was insinuating. Raising a baby… in 221B? Sherlock was willing to do that for him? Of course he is, he thought. Sherlock had been willing to die for him, over and over; taking a baby into their lives was nothing compared to that. Sherlock would do anything for him. John knew that now.

“Sherlock… thank you. But, I… I don’t think I’m meant to be a father.” Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree and John raised a finger, shushing him. “That isn’t to say that I’m completely opposed to the idea of raising a child. I’m not. But… the life I lead… the life we lead… it’s not the kind of world a kid should grow up in. I love solving cases with you, going out, chasing down criminals for Greg and the others. But you and I both know it’s a risky business to be in. I mean, God knows we’ve had enough close calls—and it wouldn’t be fair to bring a kid into that. There are other people out there who’re much better suited to raising that little girl than you and I are.” He smiled ruefully, sadness welling up a bit at the thought of losing his dream of kids. But how much did he want it, honestly? If he was truthful with himself, he’d spent more time dreading the arrival of that baby more than looking forward to it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted it as much as he told himself he did.

Sherlock nodded again. “I understand, John. But I want you to know… if you’d wanted to keep her… I would have made every effort to help you raise her, if you wanted my help.”

John smiled, his love for the man so strong right then it felt like his heart was filling up his chest. “I know.”

Sherlock swallowed. He looked miserable and John was starting to worry. The detective released John’s hand and when he looked at John, his crystalline eyes were almost tearful. “John, I… I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I understand if you can’t forgive me and won’t stay, but please… I truly am sorry.” John’s jaw fell open.

“Sherlock—what the hell are you tal—“

“John, please let me finish,” pleaded Sherlock. “If I had been smarter, this wouldn’t have happened. She wouldn’t have gotten in and she wouldn’t have shot you. I should have anticipated it, should have been on my guard, and I wasn’t, and you paid for my negligence. I failed you as a friend and frankly, as a detective. I wasn’t… clever enough. Because of me you almost died. I promised you I’d always be there for you, and I wasn’t, was I? I let you get shot. If you leave, which I’ve calculated is likely after this, please know that … you are the greatest friend I’ll ever have. You’re the most important person in my life, John. I’m sorry.” His eyes were huge and wet, pleading silently for John’s forgiveness.

John stared at him in mute shock, mind in turmoil. Sherlock thought he… hated him? Because Mary shot him, something Sherlock had no control over? He thought John would just abandon him after that? No. Never. John loved Sherlock more than he’d ever loved anyone, more than he thought he was capable of loving someone. He’d stay by Sherlock’s side until his heart stopped.

John did the only thing he could think of in that moment—the thing he’d wanted to do for years, perhaps even since that first wonderful night together chasing rogue cabbies. He leaned forward, ignoring the warning twinge from his leg, and, seizing a handful of Sherlock’s coat—ignoring the man’s startled cry of “John?”—crushed his lips against the detective’s.

As kisses go, it wasn’t the best technically speaking as Sherlock was still in mid-speech and his mouth was open and he had been taken by surprise so he was very stiff, and the angle was all wrong so their noses pressed against each other awkwardly, but other than that it was fantastic. John had been waiting so long, so very very long…

Squirming, Sherlock broke away from the kiss with a soft gasp and gaped at him. John stared back levelly. He was tired of hiding his feelings, tired of denying them to everyone including himself, tired of prohibiting himself from just trying to go after what he wanted for a change. He knew how easily his life could be snuffed out. It was long past time to do this.

“Sherlock. Listen to me. I am never, ever going to leave you. Do you understand? Never. Unless you specifically say to me, ‘John, leave, I never want to see you again,’ I’m staying right here in 221B with you. Forev—for the rest of my life. I left you before. That was the worst mistake I ever made, and I’m never going to do it again. You… you mean the world to me, Sherlock. You are my whole world. No matter how badly you think you’ve screwed up, I’ll be right by your side. All right?” Tentatively he reached out and laid his hand overtop Sherlock’s again. Sherlock didn’t immediately shake him off, which he interpreted as a good sign.

Sherlock blinked at him silently for several tension-filled moments, his cheeks red. Finally he seemed to come online again and rasped, “John… I…”

“Yes?” John gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand lightly. His heart was pounding so hard his wound was throbbing and stinging faintly but he didn’t give a flying fuck right then.

“John… you’re everything. I’m… John, I…” Sherlock seemed to choke on his words, looking thoroughly overwhelmed. He swallowed heavily, clearly at a loss for what to say. Finally he gave a small nod and leaned forward. John did as well, their foreheads nearly touching. “John… what I was going to say to you on the tarmac… I couldn’t say it then.”

“And now?” It was scary how reminiscent this conversation felt, except the last time he’d heard it from the other side, in his therapist’s chair, and it had been pouring rain, and his world had just come to an end. But this felt different… it felt hopeful.

“I… um… I love you, John.” It was a ragged whisper but John heard it clear as day and his heart quite possibly burst with joy, relief and love. A watery laugh escaped him and he raised his head to look more clearly into Sherlock’s eyes. John felt close to crying with relief. Sherlock gave him a look that was part fear, part hope, and part pure love. No one had ever looked at him that way.

“I love you too, Sherlock. God, I love you so much. I’ve been in love with you for so damn long—I’m so glad you feel the same way!” John was half-laughing, half-crying now, every wall he’d put up to protect himself crumbling away as the love he’d contained for so long was finally allowed to fill him up. Sherlock loved him. He’d finally heard it, finally. Sherlock loved him and it didn’t matter now what happened, because for the first time in John’s life he was completely, truly content.

Sherlock grinned at him, looking equally teary, swiping at his eyes with his jacket sleeve before reaching out and cupping John’s face, thumb smearing the tears that dripped down his cheek. “John.” He looked at John like he’d never be able to get enough of him. “John Watson, you extraordinary man, you really love me back?”

“Of course I do, you git,” sniffled John, mimicking the gesture and relishing the sensation of finally being able to touch those gorgeous cheekbones, wet as they were with tears. “How could I not? You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, even though I thought you’d never feel the same way.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning into John’s hand. “I did. I do, John. I’m sorry I hid it from you for so long. It scared me how much I love you. It still does, but… I don’t think I care anymore. I can’t begin to explain the depth of what I feel for you, John… how long I dreamed about this…”

“I know, I know, it would take me an eternity to be able to explain how much I love you too. So maybe I should just show you?” offered John, eager for a proper kiss now that everything was finally out in the open. Unless, of course, Sherlock had no interest in the physical aspects of love…

Or maybe he did, amended John, as Sherlock nodded, somehow both eager and shy. John leaned in and felt Sherlock’s fingers move back to cradle the base of his skull. This time, when they kissed, there was no hesitation from either side. A nuclear bomb could have fallen on St. Bart’s right then and John would have be A-OK with that because Sherlock loved him and Sherlock was kissing him and everything was perfect. They kissed and kissed, hungry and eager and so very happy. John shoved one hand into Sherlock’s thick curls as Sherlock reached around with his other hand and pulled John closer to him, crinkling the flimsy fabric of the hospital gown. The heart monitor beeped wildly in response to John’s racing pulse.

Eventually they broke apart, Sherlock halfway out of his chair and leaning over John with both arms wrapped around him and John twisted as far over in his hospital bed as he could get. John reached up and stroked Sherlock’s cheek, leaning his forehead into the other man’s as they whispered devotion and adoration to one another.

“I can’t promise I’ll be the ideal romantic partner, John,” admitted Sherlock, who hadn’t taken his hands off of the doctor for the past fifteen minutes. “I’ll do my best, but this is… fairly new for me, and you know how I am. I’ll still get bored, I’ll still probably annoy you with my experiments—“

“Sod that. I don’t care; I’ve been living with that for almost five years, Sherlock, I can deal with it just fine. Besides, I think we’ll find some excellent ways to, ah, deal with your boredom in the future,” he added with a flirtatious wink that prompted the detective to blush. “I want to be with you, Sherlock. More than anything.”

“Me too,” murmured Sherlock. “I don’t deserve you, John Watson, but I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life trying to.”

John felt tears stinging again and blinked rapidly. “Who knew you were such a sap, Sherlock Holmes?” he chuckled, not wanting to start bawling again.

Sherlock scowled a bit. “Yes, I know. It’s quite embarrassing. It doesn’t leave this room.”

“Scout’s honor.”

A nurse came in shortly after and fussed over John and left a tray of dinner and a comment that visiting hours would be over soon. Sherlock pouted over that as John ate lukewarm ham, potatoes and cherry Jell-O. Setting aside his tray, he scooted to the side of his bed, careful not to jostle his injured leg too badly. He patted the sheets. “Hop up.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in surprise, before quickly shedding his leather shoes and jacket and crawling into the hospital bed beside John. After a bit of careful maneuvering they managed to wrap around each other on the narrow bed, grinning like kids who had pulled one over on the nanny.

“This is still… I can’t believe it’s finally happening. I pictured this thousands of times,” admitted Sherlock, wriggling closer, breathing warm and steady against his neck. John shivered.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. But I’m glad it is,” agreed John, kissing the man’s forehead, brushing stray curls out of the way. “I love you.”

“I love you too, John.”

*

John must have fallen asleep after that because when he woke up there was bright morning sunlight coming through the windows and Mycroft was sitting on the visitors’ chair looking bemused. Sherlock was sitting up on John’s bed, glaring at his brother.

“Oh.” John scrubbed at his face, wincing at the drag of stubble. He needed a shave. And a toothbrush. “Hey, Mycroft.”

“Hello, Doctor Watson. I see you two wasted no time.”

“Oh shut up, Mycroft.”

“Relax, brother, I’m merely stating an observation. I’ll leave the tired refrain of ‘it’s about time’ to your colleagues of NSY.” Mycroft smiled the smile of someone who enjoyed the infuriating position of almost always being right about everything.

“Spare us, please,” said Sherlock rudely. “Out with it. You must have some reason for taking up space and irritating John.” John made a valiant effort not to smile.

Mycroft sniffed, delicately picking invisible lint from his impeccably neat suit jacket. “I intercepted the nurse before she could make a fuss about your after-hours bed sharing. Also it’s fortunate that Dr. Watson and I share the same blood type. You had a transfusion yesterday while you were still unconscious. You should be thanking me. In addition, since you were asking about the Garrideb project earlier, in response to your question, yes I knew about it, but the project was dissolved when its two top agents went… rogue. Luckily, Sherlock took care of Mr. Moran and, well you know where your former wife is now.”

“Thanks,” said John. “Seriously. And thanks for taking care of.., you know.” Normally his pride would have rankled at this, but today he didn’t care as much.

Mycroft smiled. “You’re most welcome Doctor—John.” He inclined his head at Sherlock as if to say you see? He’s grateful, what’s wrong with you? Sherlock treated him to his best eye roll.

“Anything else, Mycroft?” he asked flatly.

“I believe not, no. I’m sure you filled John in all about the state of his marriage. Or his former marriage, I should say. I’ll let you two be. I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.” He rose and swept out the door like a north wind of self-righteousness and patronization. John sighed and looked at Sherlock. The man was all set to throw an epic strop. He seemed to snap out of it when John leaned into him and put an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek.

“God forbid he misses a chance to lord it over the mere mortals of the world…”

“Ah, well, don’t mind him. And it was thoughtful of him to donate his blood,” pointed out John.

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, well, if you experience any urges to spy on people or stuff yourself with cake, do warn me ahead of time.”

John laughed and went in for a proper snog, rubbing at the base of Sherlock’s back and then sliding a hand under his shirt. Sherlock inhaled sharply as John dragged his fingers lightly over his waistband and moved higher. His fingers ran over a bumpy strip of skin—scar tissue, and he froze in surprise.

“Sherlock, what’s that?”

He looked up at the younger man, whose eyes were closed and his lips thin. Clearly he’d been dreading John finding out about this.

“Sherlock, please tell me. Where did that scar come from?”

“John, I’ll show you, but please promise me you won’t get upset. It’s… it might be startling.” John nodded, heart in his throat. Now he was almost terrified to find what Sherlock was hiding.

Sherlock stood up and began unbuttoning his shirt. John swallowed, his gaze unable to help traveling down the pale, lithely muscled torso, pausing at the pink bullet scar over his ribs. Sherlock let out a long breath and turned around, laying the shirt on the bed.

John stared in horror. Sherlock’s back was marred by dozens of scars crisscrossing all over his torso. There were several pockmarks on his back as well like someone had burned him with a lit cigarette. They all looked healed but it was still a terrifying sight. Who had done this to him?

“While I was… gone, I was captured a few times by some of Moriarty’s operatives in Eastern Europe. Their methods for extracting information were… harsh. In fact, when Mycroft helped to get me out of Serbia and back to London, it was out of one of their strongholds. Don’t worry; they’re worse than they look, I promise. They’ve all long since healed.” It came out in a rush, like he was afraid of John yelling again. John’s heart broke for the man all over again.

“Oh, Sherlock. My God, I… I had no idea. I knew you’d been in danger but… I didn’t know. Come here?” John held out his hand and Sherlock approached him again, sitting on the edge of the bed and allowing John to sit up and embrace him. He sighed and slumped against John, letting him gently rub his back. 

“Are they… I mean did you…?”

“Yes, John, they’re dead.”

“Good.” John buried his face against Sherlock’s neck, sighing. “I wish you’d told me about these sooner, Sherlock. I think I would have had an easier time understanding.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Sherlock, finally returning his embrace. “I’d meant to tell you, but then the wedding was coming up and I… I didn’t think it was important.”

“Not important?” John looked up at him. “Sherlock, it’s incredibly important! Your well-being is one of the most important things I… oh, Sherlock. You should have told me, but I understand if… I mean, if it was traumatic and you didn’t want to. I’ve… been through that sort of thing.”

Sherlock “hmm-ed” and reached up to where John’s hospital gown covered his scar, gently rubbing his back. They were silent for a long time, and finally John calmed down. To be honest, he didn’t know if he’d even have listened to Sherlock when he’d first come back, he’d been so angry. It upset him that Sherlock had him such an important detail, but John of all people knew how traumatic scars could be. But that was over now. It was finally over, and they were together now, and there would finally be time to talk—about everything.

“So… ‘not gay,’ huh?” Sherlock finally asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Er. Not exactly, no. Not straight either.” John had known since he was about 17 that he was bisexual. He’d admitted this to very few people, and the old impulse to hide and deny was still strong, even though he’d openly admitted to desperate love to this man not 24 hours before.

“Bisexual?”

“I think so, yeah. Took me a long to come to terms with it, but yeah, I’m pretty sure I am.” He looked up at Sherlock, who leaned down and pressed a close-mouthed kiss to his lips. “And I honestly always thought you were asexual.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Asexual people can still experience romantic feelings. No, in my case I just preferred to remain celibate and ignore my sexual… urges. Obviously, living with you made that more, um, difficult.” His cheeks flushed and John grinned at him. “But… as long as I can remember I’ve been attracted to men.”

“Wait, what about Irene?”

“Who? Oh, yes the Woman. No. Not her. She was intellectually fascinating but I never had the urge to pursue a relationship with her.” He squinted at John suspiciously. “Wait. Are you actually jealous?”

Now it was John’s turn to blush. “No! Not really. Ok, a little. I just… I wondered at the time, that’s all,” he babbled, trying to save face.

“We do have a lot to talk about, don’t we?” chuckled Sherlock.

John huffed in embarrassment, trying not to think about Irene too much. He couldn’t help it—he had thought for years that Sherlock had been interested in her. She’d been smart, beautiful, cunning, cold—practically Sherlock’s evil female twin. Plus she’d seen right through John’s denial of his own feelings. Green-eyed memories of Irene were soon replaced with the realization, however, that he had his arms wrapped around a very shirtless Sherlock. Experimentally he ran his tongue up that pale throat and Sherlock gasped, pulse fluttering against John’s lips.

Well. They’d talked quite enough for one morning. There were better things to do when one had a shirtless Sherlock on one’s (temporary) bed anyhow.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight NSFW here

“Sherlock, I told you, I can walk fine. No, don’t you dare—SHERLOCK!”

The laughing detective carried a red-faced and protesting John Watson over the threshold of 221B and didn’t set him down until he reached the sofa. John squirmed out of his arms and plopped onto the cushions, glaring at him with no real heat.

“Just because we’re together doesn’t mean you get to pick me up and whisk me off whenever your whims dictate.” John rested his leg on the sofa, the freshly scarred skin glinting soft pink in the afternoon light.

“How about on special occasions?”

“How is this a special occasion?”

“You’re home, now, John.” Sherlock beamed at him. “For good,” he added with a slight upward inflection, a trace of uncertainty on his features. John didn’t want Sherlock to ever feel uncertain about his presence in his life again. He shook his head and patted the cushion next to him, and Sherlock happily sat, curling around him.

“Yes, Sherlock. For good. There’s nothing on this earth that’s going to keep me away from you now.” Sherlock made a pleased noise and rested his chin on John’s head. John thought he would have been bothered to be the shorter one in the relationship, but all this being snuggled and feeling protected business was really quite nice.

“I love you,” he murmured, savoring being able to say it out loud.

“Mmm.” Sherlock kissed his hair. “I love you too. Infinitely.”

Mrs. Hudson came up a little while later to bring tea and fuss over John. They didn’t bother to hide their newly elevated relationship status from her, and received a great deal of exasperated relief and maybe some tears for it. After kissing them both on the cheek and muttering something about “figuring it out before I was in the grave,” she left them alone again. They exchanged looks, John’s amused, Sherlock’s smug.

“Just wondering—did everyone know except us?”

“Essentially, yes,” the detective replied lightly, retrieving them two cups of tea. “’I can’t imagine anyone will be too terribly surprised to hear that you and I are… finally together.”

John couldn’t help but smile. They really were together. He knew they couldn’t make up for all the time they’d wasted, but perhaps they hadn’t been ready before. And besides, now they had the rest of their lives to make the best of it.

“Do your mum and dad know?”

Sherlock scowled. “No. I’d rather delay that for a little while at least. They adore you, by the way—I was getting some less-than-subtle hints from my mother that I should have ‘made a move while I had a chance’ at Christmas.”

John winced sympathetically. “Your mum doesn’t seem like one for mincing words. Guess she passed that on to her sons, eh?”

Sherlock looked ready to argue the point, but seemed to think it over and closed his mouth. He sniffed and poured milk into his tea, adding, “It’s likely Mycroft told them anyways.”

“Oh. Yeah. God, he must have known years ago. About—you know—“

“He probably did from the first week or so. My brother is the one person I’ve never been able to hide anything from, as much as I’ve tried.”

John sat down next to him and Sherlock put an arm around his shoulder, encouraging him to nestle into his side. John leaned into him, catching a whiff of Sherlock’s expensive cologne and wrapping his free arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“Not sure how I was able to hide it from you so long, to be honest.”

“Well, you never gave me any clear indication of being interested in men. You were always very quick to defend your heterosexuality, and… I mean, I began to think after a while that you were not as straight as you claimed to be, but you were with Mary by then, and… well. There’s the obvious, of course.” Sherlock ran his finger around the rim of his teacup, lost in thought.

“The obvious what?”

“Well, I’m… me. I’m rude and careless and I have difficulty understanding feelings and… well, I left you for two years, John. I thought that if you’d ever… been attracted to me in any capacity, you would have long since moved on.” It occurred to John how deeply ingrained this mindset is, how long Sherlock has believed himself to be unlovable. His heart ached for this lonely, beautiful man.

“Sherlock… I never moved on. I mean, I won’t lie, I did try to because… it just hurt so much, all the time.” John reached up and stroked Sherlock’s face as a small hurt noise issued from the man. He wondered if Sherlock would ever forgive himself. “But I couldn’t, especially not after you came back. I was always attracted to you, right from the start, but even that feels like nothing compared to how I feel now. I love you so much. Everything about you, even when you’re a completely inconsiderate arse. That’s never changed. I promise it won’t ever change.”

Sherlock smiled a bit, and, setting his tea down, leaned in and began lazily kissing his way from the corner of John’s mouth to his collarbone. For a man with little practical experience, he was an amazingly fast learner. “Even when I leave sheep tongues in the freezer?”

“E-even then,” responded John shakily, biting back a moan as teeth grazed the tendons of his throat.

“Hmmm. Even when I run off and leave you behind in crime scenes? Which I will try to do less of in the future, by the way.”

“Yes, Sherlock, then too—oh!”

“Ah, you’re sensitive there.”

John sighed happily—they hadn’t been able to get up to anything particularly naughty in the hospital, for obvious reasons, but now they were home and there was nothing barring perhaps a triple murder that could stop them now. “Sherlock, should we—mmm—bedroom?” he managed, as the consulting detective was currently on a mission to separate all of John’s shirt buttons from their designated holes.

Sherlock blinked up at him. “I honestly didn’t think of that,” he breathed, looking somewhere between abashed and excited. John laughed.

“Come on, then. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to get you in bed.” He tugged Sherlock to his feet, pulling him into a very sensual kiss—nothing innocent here, no nurses to hide from. Sherlock moaned when John reached around to grope his arse with both hands and grind their pelvises together, and oh—he was hard. Oh yes.

“John, I—I want—“ gasped Sherlock when they took a break for oxygen, tearing open John’s shirt and reaching around so he could run his hands up and down John’s naked back. 

“What do you want, Sherlock? Tell me, please,” said John, leaning up to suck at his pulse point.

Sherlock moaned again, tipping his head back to encourage John. “I—everything, John, can we—ah!”

“Oh, God, yes.”

John couldn’t get him into the bedroom fast enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thing I forgot to post. Whoopsies. Not one of my personal favorites but hopefully you all out there might like it more than me!


End file.
